Noise Policy
by MihoAnsatsu
Summary: Lizzy tries to help Ranesh get to grips with proper drums, but her demonstration proves too loud for one of her fellow Berzerk.


"Hey Ranesh, you ever played _proper_ drums before?"

For me it's just one more practise, plain and simple. For Ranesh...a completely different affair; sat at the drum-kit with a somewhat enlightened look on his face, he's shifting his attention from one drum to the other as if he can't decide which one to hit first. Though he's soon shaking his head as if he can't bare to touch _any_ of them upon hearing my words.

"Excuse me, Lizzy, but the only drum for me is the one with which I can proclaim the truth."

"And you said you were going to quit all this fah-lah-lah religious nonsense upon choosing to rock with me," I retort, feeling a smirk form on my face as I gently prise the drum from his grasp. "Don't worry, you can have it back, just as long as I see what you're made of."

"Not until I see what _you're_ made of," he instantly responds, sounding innocent enough; the look on his face telling a completely different story, I didn't think a religious nut like Ranesh ever even _considered_ thinking like that. It's actually kinda creepy. He should be thankful our friendship saves him, anyone like Gus or Jeffrey would have immediately been oops'd upside the ass with my trusty 'Shrapnel'.

….yeah, I named my guitar, you wanna fight about it?

"Ranesh, I _told_ you, I'm not looking for a boyfriend at the moment."

He's a great guy and all, but all this romance within the clan seems more like a _trend_ if anything. Yeah, Taylor and Lola totally belong together, as do Vivi and her politician fuckbuddy. Beef and Miho make an adorable couple aswell as Boyle and Sylvia but...Melanie and _Cortez_? Now I just _know_ he purposely did that to screw with Norman, though you can't really blame him with all the abuse he gets just for being Mexican.

Ranesh is staring at the drum now as if it's suddenly going to attack him, though he's still brave enough to suddenly tap one of the snares with his finger. Convinced everything is a-ok, he then lightly bangs the snare with his fist, before gliding into his own rhythms that his single drum is all too familiar with.

"Woah, hold it Ranesh!"

He obediently stops, though he's giving me a somewhat annoyed glare in the process.

"Dude," I begin, picking up the nearby drumsticks and holding them out to him. "They're not like your weird, bongo thing. You're going to hurt your hands if you don't have the proper equipment."

"But as the original tools given by the creator himself, with thy hands I _do_ have the proper equipment," he says, about to launch off into the religious speech of the century; the look on my face being the sure-fire way for him to immediately shut up, yet he suddenly makes himself heard again just two seconds later.

"Though maybe you'd like to demonstrate exactly what you mean?"

"It's like this, Ranesh."

As he allows me to take his place at the drums, I find myself just letting go as I hit anything and everything on the kit; I feel it's nothing more than a simple jam session, but I'm sure Ranesh sees it as a very complicated and deliberate solo.

"There is no limit to your talent, is there?" He says, sounding very impressed as he...oh gawd no, he is not about to do the...yep. He just did the religious, arms-out praise thing.

"May Cortez continue to be great inspiration in your path to rockdom."

"I couldn't give a single fuck about Cortez, if I'm absolutely honest."

Hearing the room door slowly open at that moment, I can feel my heart suddenly drop at the possibility of our leader hearing that I couldn't give a fuck about him. Oh please be cool about it, please be cool about it, please be cool about it...

"Guys...could you keep the noise down...please?"

Usually, I'd suspect a trick on the other person's part, but Ranesh can't do a good impression to save his life; standing at the door is a familiar face, seeming somewhat hesitant to start any arguments with me. Now a lot of people think Spyke had been rendered completely mute, but that's not entirely true. He's able to speak a few short sentences on occasion but because of how Cortez damaged his jaw, talking soon becomes a painful chore for him. But don't start thinking Cortez is an awful guy for what he did, because the story _you_ guys know is completely exaggerated. Yes, Spyke did proclaim that he knew what was going on in Room 13, but it was all in humour, just like Cortez' response; laughing all the way through the binding and gagging until we soon realised that our leader can get a little (understatement!) too rough in his jokes, and poor Spyke ended up in a _lot_ of pain. And despite what Clint City thinks, they still remain good friends; though recently, Spyke got a little annoyed and kicked Cortez square in the balls. But that story's for another time.

"Sorry Spyke," I say, putting my guitar down and approaching him for a hug (despite him being five years older, I still see him as a kid brother). "Are we keeping you up?"

"No, but you're keeping Norman up. I just heard him pass my room and he's complaining even more than usual," he explains, suddenly wincing at the end of his sentence and immediately lifting the white bandage over his mouth as to rest his jaw. Looking as if his feet could be in pain too, he's soon moving Shrapnel from the bed and carefully cradling it as he sits down. Glancing at the strings, he can't help but pluck a single one, gazing up rather fearfully at me as soon he makes a sound.

"Oh you," I tease, shaking my head and unable to keep myself from chuckling. "I'm not about to kill you for _one note_."

"You went off on one at Esther for simply touching it," Ranesh pipes up, still sitting at the drum-kit

"Yeah, but that's because she's an annoying little kid who no one likes," I explain, sitting down on the bed next to Spyke and suddenly give him a playful noogie. "But this is _Spyke_ we're talking about. He's a cool guy, and cool guys get previews. You wanna hear the song I wrote today?"

Still finding it a little too painful to speak, he gives a single nod as I gently snatch Shrapnel from his bandaged hands and begin to tune up the tight, white strings; it doesn't take long before my guitar's sounding as awesome as always, even with the volume cranked all the way up to eleven and my speaker on it's last wires.

"Hello, Red One Motel!" I find myself shouting rather loudly, as if by rocker habit. "Are we ready?! One, two, ONE TWO THREE FOUR!"

A lot of people would say that midnight is way too late to start jamming and rocking and all that, but to us the night's still young. I'm not sure about Ranesh and Spyke, but I'm certainly not a day person and they're not about to complain if their keen smiles mean anything.

And if Norman does complain? Fuck him, and fuck his noise policies. There's no law against rocking out.


End file.
